In California, days in cars
bathed in orange, by the
kindness of strangers.
New York to Colorado,
along the Poudre Canyon
****** experiments along
rocks’ radiating warmth,
calling back to every girl
I ever cranked to, I’m not sorry.
My **** is perfect
in my fantasies.
In California, awake for
months.
Where roots burst
through wet soil, and
crisscross like the iridescent
patterns of rainbow
trout down the
walls of tributary framing
cliffs. It is the closest I ever
came to suicide.
Back to D.C. to atone for
my hubris, to quickly fall
in love with an acceptable
girl, to learn that above
all I love myself and that
I am very unlucky to
suffer so, though we do.
Suffer for warmth and
suffer for freedom, suffer
for not joining the game,
only basking yourself in
illusory silks akin to
deciduous shadows.
On a plane, the maddest
I’d ever been at my president,
my row mate casually ingesting
and offering tranquilizers,
and we’re in the
abyss between D.C. and
Sao Paulo, and it sure feels
like we’re nowhere. In and out
of alleys and fire escapes,
technicolor dirt bukes and mopeds
on tumescent cobblestones,
palm fronds baked yellow
against blood white
artifacts from Portugal.
Small kisses of blood
soaked in generations’
soil, bespectacled ogling
in throbbing storms.
Deeper then, more planes,
other cities, north, now
Brasilia now planes,
now Maraba, bus through
loaded land mines on
long stretches of highway
as spectator of many
barefooted football matches,
roadside chickes killed
and grilled at my behest,
were they at least impressed?
I had traveled so far to eat them,
afterall.
Bandits still living wild and
free in the brush, Redencao,
small town surrounded by big trees,
bullet scarred walls and charming
plazas full of colorful whims,
vagabond time keeping,
and ******
Here is where the smallest plane
of which I’m aware and it takes
you into a great big mouth
of endless glimmering hope.
Propellors spin and now
you’re giving your gadgets
to Indians and watching
the most beautiful dance
you’ve ever seen. And
you see that living off the land
is a kind of eternity.
hikes and hikes, endless ascents
and trees that choke the light
stretching past the capacity
of all legs, long walks down
functioning digestive systems.
In a canoe now, up the Xingu
deeper into the gaping maw
of unbeing, being less here
than whatever I was there,
knowing that Ihave been
less and have been more, and
now am all there ever was
on the precipice of the one
true choice, slow motion
blistering, unfathomable bugs,
the way the xingus mud cloacked
current felt more ominous
once you had to swim back.
It could be a hillside here that
I disappeared, finally, happy to feed
the pagan beasts and the insatiable
insects, the insatiable forest
strangling the life of anything
within reach. Then you are
expected to go back to things
as normal after all that, eat
from the same sad oven and
accpet things like tvs in showers.
Act like it’s not
all burning.
More plaes, Europe, fulfill the
cliché of your life wrapped
up in more self erosion and
quantifiable terrors originating
vectors. There’s the blue of
Nice that is all Yves Klein,
strong, forceful waves above
rusted calcified cliffs,
bellowing waves against
piers paved into the will
of rejecting God. Crashing
lighthouses, up and down
narrow alleys against
structure ugly with time,
nonstop ******* and Marseille
and Avingon and Paris and
who knows which memory is tether to which place,
or where you began making
things up because you
never thought anything you actually
did was worth a **** a time of
round brown ******* and cigarettes
burned down to the **** and having to tell people that the
moisture on their toilet
will destroy their *******
amsterdam, again, a train,
one chocolate, one cigarette,
one pull of water, windows
open with prologned creaks,
a thicket of tubes and gurgling
co-consprators. You prefer
that they not know that
you are American. But
in the end your’e always better.
Transcendence comes on the back of
uncomfortable hostel experiences
and prolonged stretches of
waitingwith nothing but wind
and space, nostalgia and melancholy
in the way you walk my bridges
and run your fingers along
my railings. Then so it had to
be Prague, more flights, more cars,
more horror and ways to die,
Krakow and Budapest, rivers,
hills, forests, death, years of finely
documented death, dalliances with
forbidden borders, easy prey
for the blissful hands of
pickpockets on old trains full
of cigarette smoke, and these
wonderful castles and impractical
cathedrals, I say, if you turn
rhe right corner at the right time
you begin to accept the humility
of compassion, how it makes two things
one, weightlessly ride on autumn waves
through several dreams.
A land of beautiful alcohol and
plentiful drugs, prostitutes,
aspiring pornographers in need of extras,
and cellar upon cellar upon cellar,
in which to lose sensory boundaries
and turn into the smoke,
the sweating and ******* through blood,
lies, lies, they are constant and in
Prague, too. Steep hills and
purring rivers lapping, left!
center! right! woo the taxi goes,
Marx & McDonalds finally
paying rent to the same landlord.
Planes and hotels and internet
cafes, job searches and cigarettes,
anything but having to admit that
it would just be easier to
go back to America,
the incense these street urchins
call hashish fills large spliffs
that ignite and engulf
your future, no money but always
coffee and cigarettes, and beautiful
alcohol,
more prostitutes than priests, but
then again that’s General Franco,
it all is, dog eared photos of
flea bitten relationships, creuelty and
violence, always ******* and always
dying, the self
persistent in deception, the compassion
receding in the hyper individualized,
Chartes cathedral? No, German
tourists ******* African prostitutes
in the sand under prickly brush,
how the former is identified versus
the latter says something and
the Mediterranean knows this song
and sings it unconcernedly.
Those red villages build of mud
and clay,
in the small spaces cut
into those carnivorous cliffs
where being frequented by
dream scenarios, white dress,
brown skin, red headband in
dark curls, the breeze as
monetary distraction to
observe the sand and
life wading through shallow
waters. Rental cars driven
into extinction, questionable
passes on hideously violent
roadways, but, they have
sacred mountains cut by human hands
with chartered buses available,
to scale dozens of noticeably
confrontational switchbacks,
flights to mallorca, to seville and
madrid, and the first time I was
truly catholic, and the dew soaked
cheese of Bilbao, flights cars cigarettes,
ashes and lonely headlights drowning
in the rear view, and finding time
throughout to fall out of love
quite convincingly, and maybe I
chose myself, a sin to be sure, but
I’m also autistic and I think God should
take some blame, too, but it only kept
going, there are other countries
and other rivers, corresponding
culture and consumption, so ultimately
words and architecture, museums and
hills, salty bays and wet grass that
emits powerful feeling of
mortality, and you can never
outrun all the countries and all the blood,
all the modes of transporation and the
death they ferry you to for a nominal fee,
the gorging self-destructive habits,
to be sure tiny flecks of me had
flaked off and I realized that I had
left small pieces of my self there
and had whittled into a more efficient
transmitter of the divine, and
I knew that I had neared perfection
with each loss bring me closer, and
I knew I would only reach Eden if
I continued losing.
Oct 29, 2025
Oct 29, 2025 at 10:26 PM UTC
In California, days in cars
bathed in orange, by the
kindness of strangers.
New York to Colorado,
along the Poudre Canyon
****** experiments along
rocks’ radiating warmth,
calling back to every girl
I ever cranked to, I’m not sorry.
My **** is perfect
in my fantasies.
In California, awake for
months.
Where roots burst
through wet soil, and
crisscross like the iridescent
patterns of rainbow
trout down the
walls of tributary framing
cliffs. It is the closest I ever
came to suicide.
Back to D.C. to atone for
my hubris, to quickly fall
in love with an acceptable
girl, to learn that above
all I love myself and that
I am very unlucky to
suffer so, though we do.
Suffer for warmth and
suffer for freedom, suffer
for not joining the game,
only basking yourself in
illusory silks akin to
deciduous shadows.
On a plane, the maddest
I’d ever been at my president,
my row mate casually ingesting
and offering tranquilizers,
and we’re in the
abyss between D.C. and
Sao Paulo, and it sure feels
like we’re nowhere. In and out
of alleys and fire escapes,
technicolor dirt bukes and mopeds
on tumescent cobblestones,
palm fronds baked yellow
against blood white
artifacts from Portugal.
Small kisses of blood
soaked in generations’
soil, bespectacled ogling
in throbbing storms.
Deeper then, more planes,
other cities, north, now
Brasilia now planes,
now Maraba, bus through
loaded land mines on
long stretches of highway
as spectator of many
barefooted football matches,
roadside chickes killed
and grilled at my behest,
were they at least impressed?
I had traveled so far to eat them,
afterall.
Bandits still living wild and
free in the brush, Redencao,
small town surrounded by big trees,
bullet scarred walls and charming
plazas full of colorful whims,
vagabond time keeping,
and ******
Here is where the smallest plane
of which I’m aware and it takes
you into a great big mouth
of endless glimmering hope.
Propellors spin and now
you’re giving your gadgets
to Indians and watching
the most beautiful dance
you’ve ever seen. And
you see that living off the land
is a kind of eternity.
hikes and hikes, endless ascents
and trees that choke the light
stretching past the capacity
of all legs, long walks down
functioning digestive systems.
In a canoe now, up the Xingu
deeper into the gaping maw
of unbeing, being less here
than whatever I was there,
knowing that Ihave been
less and have been more, and
now am all there ever was
on the precipice of the one
true choice, slow motion
blistering, unfathomable bugs,
the way the xingus mud cloacked
current felt more ominous
once you had to swim back.
It could be a hillside here that
I disappeared, finally, happy to feed
the pagan beasts and the insatiable
insects, the insatiable forest
strangling the life of anything
within reach. Then you are
expected to go back to things
as normal after all that, eat
from the same sad oven and
accpet things like tvs in showers.
Act like it’s not
all burning.
More plaes, Europe, fulfill the
cliché of your life wrapped
up in more self erosion and
quantifiable terrors originating
vectors. There’s the blue of
Nice that is all Yves Klein,
strong, forceful waves above
rusted calcified cliffs,
bellowing waves against
piers paved into the will
of rejecting God. Crashing
lighthouses, up and down
narrow alleys against
structure ugly with time,
nonstop ******* and Marseille
and Avingon and Paris and
who knows which memory is tether to which place,
or where you began making
things up because you
never thought anything you actually
did was worth a **** a time of
round brown ******* and cigarettes
burned down to the **** and having to tell people that the
moisture on their toilet
will destroy their *******
amsterdam, again, a train,
one chocolate, one cigarette,
one pull of water, windows
open with prologned creaks,
a thicket of tubes and gurgling
co-consprators. You prefer
that they not know that
you are American. But
in the end your’e always better.
Transcendence comes on the back of
uncomfortable hostel experiences
and prolonged stretches of
waitingwith nothing but wind
and space, nostalgia and melancholy
in the way you walk my bridges
and run your fingers along
my railings. Then so it had to
be Prague, more flights, more cars,
more horror and ways to die,
Krakow and Budapest, rivers,
hills, forests, death, years of finely
documented death, dalliances with
forbidden borders, easy prey
for the blissful hands of
pickpockets on old trains full
of cigarette smoke, and these
wonderful castles and impractical
cathedrals, I say, if you turn
rhe right corner at the right time
you begin to accept the humility
of compassion, how it makes two things
one, weightlessly ride on autumn waves
through several dreams.
A land of beautiful alcohol and
plentiful drugs, prostitutes,
aspiring pornographers in need of extras,
and cellar upon cellar upon cellar,
in which to lose sensory boundaries
and turn into the smoke,
the sweating and ******* through blood,
lies, lies, they are constant and in
Prague, too. Steep hills and
purring rivers lapping, left!
center! right! woo the taxi goes,
Marx & McDonalds finally
paying rent to the same landlord.
Planes and hotels and internet
cafes, job searches and cigarettes,
anything but having to admit that
it would just be easier to
go back to America,
the incense these street urchins
call hashish fills large spliffs
that ignite and engulf
your future, no money but always
coffee and cigarettes, and beautiful
alcohol,
more prostitutes than priests, but
then again that’s General Franco,
it all is, dog eared photos of
flea bitten relationships, creuelty and
violence, always ******* and always
dying, the self
persistent in deception, the compassion
receding in the hyper individualized,
Chartes cathedral? No, German
tourists ******* African prostitutes
in the sand under prickly brush,
how the former is identified versus
the latter says something and
the Mediterranean knows this song
and sings it unconcernedly.
Those red villages build of mud
and clay,
in the small spaces cut
into those carnivorous cliffs
where being frequented by
dream scenarios, white dress,
brown skin, red headband in
dark curls, the breeze as
monetary distraction to
observe the sand and
life wading through shallow
waters. Rental cars driven
into extinction, questionable
passes on hideously violent
roadways, but, they have
sacred mountains cut by human hands
with chartered buses available,
to scale dozens of noticeably
confrontational switchbacks,
flights to mallorca, to seville and
madrid, and the first time I was
truly catholic, and the dew soaked
cheese of Bilbao, flights cars cigarettes,
ashes and lonely headlights drowning
in the rear view, and finding time
throughout to fall out of love
quite convincingly, and maybe I
chose myself, a sin to be sure, but
I’m also autistic and I think God should
take some blame, too, but it only kept
going, there are other countries
and other rivers, corresponding
culture and consumption, so ultimately
words and architecture, museums and
hills, salty bays and wet grass that
emits powerful feeling of
mortality, and you can never
outrun all the countries and all the blood,
all the modes of transporation and the
death they ferry you to for a nominal fee,
the gorging self-destructive habits,
to be sure tiny flecks of me had
flaked off and I realized that I had
left small pieces of my self there
and had whittled into a more efficient
transmitter of the divine, and
I knew that I had neared perfection
with each loss bring me closer, and
I knew I would only reach Eden if
I continued losing.